Chocolate Won't Desert You
by Eridanus1123
Summary: Four o'clock, and Draco Malfoy's Easter has already been mercilessly ripped to shreds. Can anything save it? He doesn't think so.


It was four o'clock in the morning. Draco was lying on his back, in the green bed, eyes wide open. The green stains on the ceiling – remnants from the house party after the last won Quidditch game – were no help in distracting him from the stabbing, longing pains in his stomach, the overactivity of his salivary glands. _Draco wanted chocolate, damnit. _

Two sides of him were battling fiercely, with machetes and nunchakus. The dominant side of him, the greedy Draco who could think about nothing but the chocolate bunny he intended to well and truly demolish as soon as the sun made an appearance, was arguing loudly in his head with the little boy Draco who was as excited as... well, as little boy Draco on Christmas morning, just a fair deal hungrier.

His fingers twisted in the bedclothes, frustrated beyond belief that the others in his dormitory possessed a profound dislike of anyone who so much as _moved_ before ten o'clock on a weekend. He wasn't afraid of their anger, and would really rather they disliked him than fawned over him, but Blaise's reflexes were always astonishingly sharp in the morning, and he always slept with his wand in the waistband of his pants. When he wore pants, that is.

Inching his hand out from under the covers and over to the bedside table was a perilous enough move. He didn't even dare to try and summon the basket of chocolate that he knew would be waiting for him over by the door. His long fingers carefully, slowly, _agonisingly_ twisted the watch on his bedside table around so that the face was visible to him. It caught a sliver of moonlight that crept in through the parted curtains, and he read the familiar greeting of 'Happy Easter, O Gorgeous One' that appeared in delicate handwriting on his watch each year. For a moment, he smiled, his ego puffing and proud. When he noticed that the minute hand of his watch had only crept forward one notch, his smile dissolved into a grumpy scowl.

Back at the Manor, Easter had periodically been celebrated with fireworks, caviar, and the finest imported chocolate that money could buy. He would wake up, and he would smile, and he would bound to the chest at the end of his bed to find a hamper brimming with chocolate eggs, chocolate bunnies, chocolate dwarves, frosted eggs, sugar eggs, bubble gum eggs, eggs that hatched, eggs that fried... everything a boy could ever desire on the third best day of the year.

Downstairs, the dining room table would be adorned with three intricate statues – one for each person in the family. Draco's would always be disproportionately short, compared to Narcissa and Lucius' lofty figures, but he would always complain enough to be allowed to eat his parents' heads, so it didn't really do him any harm. The three of them would sit down to a breakfast of eggs – fried, scrambled, poached, boiled, pickled – and would proceed to spend the entire day together, the only one apart from Christmas.

When he had gotten to Hogwarts, the tradition had changed. All of a sudden, his parents made plans to spend Easter overseas, in France or somewhere tropical. Alone. The negligence of their tradition had stunned him at first, but he had quickly adapted to the new routine. Rather than spending the day with his family, he would spend it with those of his friends who remained for the holidays. Still, though, he would eat only eggs at breakfast in the Great Hall, and, in the basket sent by the family house elf, he would ensure that there remained the traditional self-statue, among a wide variety of everything else he could ever desire. The basket was always twice the size of his home one, so it could contain a bottle of champagne and enough other non-chocolate food stuffs to make up for his parents' abandonment of him.

This Easter especially, he was looking forward to being allowed out of bed, because _he_ had a date. Yes. That's right. Draco Malfoy, scorn of the school ever since the revealment of his father's return to the Dark Side, had a date. With a girl. A _hot_ girl.

He returned to his former occupation of drumming his hands against his bare stomach, wand at the ready in case one of his lethargic dormitory-mates chanced to wake up. Time wore on, though a verb more fitting would be 'crawled' or 'moved imperceptibly because it was going so damn slow'. He waited, and he waited, and he sang to himself and he waited, until the first glimmer of rosy sunlight peeked through the curtains. He wanted to spring out of bed, run over, and begin to gorge himself silly.

He had to resist.

He _had_ to resist.

It was like the sun was teasing him, declaring in a know-it-all voice remarkably similar to Hermione Granger's, 'I'm here, but you still can't get up for another four hours unless you want your 'nads blown off, and not in a good way, either.'

Sometimes, he hated the sun.

Sometimes, he hated the little part in his brain that gave voices to inanimate objects.

He waited. His fingers found their way to his wand, and his wand found its way into the air, and before he knew it, he was whispering, "Accio!" and sending his basket flying towards him.

It was so close, only a few feet from his bed. Without a word, without making any noise, Blaise lifted his arm. A rope of fire swung out of the tip of his wand, and whipped his chocolate basket. Draco snapped upright in bed, watching in horror as his basket disintegrated into a pile of burning ashes which floated lazily to the ground. One landed on Blaise's cheek, and he swished it away carelessly, before uttering, "Die, Malfoy," at Draco and falling back to sleep.

Draco's chest rose, and then fell. He rolled over, buried his face in his pillow, and screamed.

He _really _wanted chocolate.

"Malfoy! If you don't shut the _friggin' hell_ _up_, I'm coming over there and doin' it for you!"

Various curtains around the room shook with agreement, and a few voices rang out with similar statements. So, he rolled out of bed, stuffed his feet into the bunny slippers that the house elf had sent in his basket the year before, and stumbled downstairs. As the door to the boys' dormitory closed behind him, he heard the simultaneous thuds that sounded strangely like five enchanted water jugs being thrown at the door.

He sat in the common room for a few minutes, but the fire wasn't yet lit, and it was cold and unwelcoming without chocolate.

Stupid Blaise and his stupid tendency to explode things. _God._ One of these days, Draco was going to go completely psycho on his ass, and then he'd get his just desserts.

It was early, too early for any of the other lazy slackers who didn't give Easter the full attention it deserved to be awake, so he took to wandering the castle in search of someone else's chocolate. The Slytherins – all but him, apparently – weren't quite as enthusiastic about the holiday, since it was their life's duty to preserve their bathing suit figures or be shunned by the Dark Lord. Slytherins were the cool kids in the school, the beautiful people. Except for that horrible Millicent Bulstrode. And that kid with the acne. And... really, Crabbe and Goyle. Other than that, though, they were all quite attractive.

He imagined that the Hufflepuff students would be _enthusiastic_ supporters of a tradition that means free chocolate, if that Macmillan boy was anything to judge by, so he wandered in the direction of their common room. Due to his week-long dalliance with that _fine_ Susan Bones the year before, he was fully aware of the position of the entrance to their common room, and he was on fairly decent terms with the paintings in the school. If it was a _woman_ portrait, he was quite sure he could persuade her to give him the password. If it was a man, or fruit or something... well, he would just have to wing it.

Before he went and looted the Hufflepuffs' chocolate, though, he needed to see if his owl was back yet. He was expecting a letter, and he was certain it would be one that he didn't want to receive at the breakfast table, in front of everyone. Aside from that, it would probably put him off his eggs, and that would _really_ ruin Easter for him.

The Owlery was high up in the castle, the complete opposite direction of the Hufflepuff common room in the basement. It seemed that the school was using its trick, trying to make him exercise as much as possible on this, a day when it foresaw that he would be consuming an incredible amount of un-health. The school was really quite clever, sometimes, for all its negative attributes.

As he trudged up the stairs, it occurred to him that this was not turning out to be a very good day. He had no chocolate, he suspected he had pulled a muscle climbing all those stairs, and his parents were either in hiding or in jail – he wouldn't know; they rarely deigned to correspond with him, their only offspring. Easter, one of his favourite days of the year, was so far turning out to be a colossal disappointment. There was pretty much nothing that existed in the living universe that could make his day any worse.

He opened the door to the Owlery. There was a figure sitting in the corners, already dressed in Muggle clothes, with a bird perched on her knee and a thick letter in her lap, sealed with a wax seal.

Oh. So, there was.

Funny. He was hardly ever wrong about anything.

"Granger," he said coldly, and if there was a moment when he regretted his choice of footwear, it was then. Well, the high heels he had worn to that 'dress up like a transvestite' party Blaise had thrown, but that really didn't count.

"Nice shoes."

Of course, she would _instantly_ choose to provoke the _only_ thing he was insecure about at that particular moment. Sadistic little mudblood.

"Wow, thanks. I was thinking of you, actually. Thought I'd even the playing field. One embarrassing clothing choice versus... well, your entire face."

She glanced up. "I see this time of day isn't really too good for your comeback skills."

"Morning?" he asked incredulously, raising one eyebrow.

"The waking hours."

He glared at her, and strode over to the perch upon which his owl was sitting haughtily, picking at its feathers. He tried to snatch the scroll from its leg, seeing the familiar writing – always in blood red ink – but the bird slashed at him with its talons. Granger didn't say or do anything, luckily for her, because if she had so much as let out a giggle, she would have been rat food before she could say-

"Jesus, Malfoy, that's a _lot_ of blood."

Indeed it was, gushing profusely from three straight lines on top of his hand. Like a waterfall, he observed, watching it spill out onto the stone floor of the Owlery. It dripped into a small puddle, which began to spread...

As a matter of fact, he was kind of starting to feel a little woozy, watching all of this blood rush out of his body.

"Malfoy? Perhaps you'd better... sit down or something?"

When he awoke, he was lying on his back on the floor of the Owlery, in a puddle of his own blood. The room was deserted, his head hurt, his wrist _stung,_ and his stomach rumbled to him, 'Chocolate!'

Granger was a first class bitch. How could _anyone_ leave someone to _die_ on the floor after they'd passed out? _Even_ if that person had been a jerk to them their entire adolescent life. Really, what sort of a person _was_ she?

"Malfoy," she said bossily, bustling into the room with a chocolate bunny in her hands and her wand in the other. "Here." She shoved the chocolate into his hands, and jabbed at his wrist with her wand. It tingled, flashed with burning pain for a moment, and then the raw, puckered cut on his hand faded first into shiny, pink healed skin, and then back into its normal shade of white. The pain had disappeared. The pounding in his head was gone, too, and there was a chocolate bunny in his hands, _begging _to be realised from its little foil tuxedo and swallowed.

He almost forgot about the hovering presence of that annoying cumulus nimbus standing above him with her arms crossed, while he was enjoying the very first chocolate of his Easter. Once the bunny was securely down his throat, though, _she_ cleared _hers._

"Yes?" he asked contemptuously, glaring up at her.

"How's the hand?" she asked coolly, without moving in any way that suggested that she actually possessed a bone in her body that cared whether or not he was still bleeding.

He held it up to show her, back and front. "Fine," he said sarcastically. "Want to leave now?"

"Yes, you're _really_ in a good position to be talking down to me," she said, looking around him as if _she_ were the one who was disgusted by the other person in the room. "You, the one sitting in a puddle of your own blood."

It was a good point, he couldn't help but admit. Luckily, this wasn't his favourite shirt. Unluckily, they_ were_ his favourite pants, and the seat of them was now covered in blood. He was going to look a _treat_ when he returned downstairs. However, his imperfect appearance could be easily rectified. Feeling around for his wand, he sifted through the list of spells in his head, to decide which to curse Granger with first. Though there were a few that tempted him beyond belief, it would probably be a better idea for him to let her slide, this time, seeing as though she had helped him.

And now, it seemed as though he would need a little more of that charitable assistance.

"Granger?" He looked up at her, trying to apply a sociable expression to his face – though the attempt failed miserably.

"What?" She shot him a sneer almost worthy of himself, from where she was reattaching her unopened letter to the barn owl's foot.

"I forgot my wand," he informed her, and added as an afterthought, "Now, _what_ is the point of receiving mail if you aren't going to open it?"

The most scathing glare that Pansy Parkinson had ever produced cowered with fear in comparison with the one that Hermione Granger hit him with. Right between the eyes, too. Ouch. He felt as though there were knives whipping from her intense pupils to every square inch of his body, and it wasn't exactly pleasant. He'd always thought that her brown eyes were soft – not that he noticed her eyes, or anything; sheesh – but now, they were sharper than the knives that Blaise often had hidden on various places around his person. They were intense, man, and he had to admit that he was a little bit afraid of the damage she could do, considering that he didn't have a wand, and she most certainly did.

"Shut it, Malfoy," she exclaimed, and quickly turned back to the bird so that her face was hidden. Over her shoulder, she jabbed her wand in his direction. The blood from the floor and from his clothing was sucked away.

"Thanks," he began to say grudgingly, before he realised that, contrary to popular belief, the blood had _not_ disappeared into thin air. It had collected, and was now hovering in a swirling, solid ball over his head.

"Merlin, Granger, what the hell do you think you're doing?!" he cried, trying to skirt from underneath it. It followed him over to the wall, and inched lower down.

"I said, shut your face, Malfoy," she said.

Was it just him, or did those dulcet tones he was so used to hearing spill from her mouth sound a little... teary? Higher pitched, rougher, a little broken...

Whoa. Granger was seriously _crying._ In front of him. _Whoa._

"Erm... Granger?"

"Go away, Malfoy."

"Actually, I still kind of need my mai-"

"_Go away, Malfoy!_"

"Hoity toity," he mumbled, walking over to his owl and carefully removing the letter from its leg. On his way to the door, he paused, conflicted. He needed to consider. On one hand, it was _Granger._ A _Mudblood._ If she wanted comforting, she really ought to run to Potter or Poor Boy Weasley. On the other hand, his vast experience with members of the opposite sex told him that crying girls usually responded _very_ generously to a comforting shoulder to cry on. On the other hand, it was _Granger. _

Male instinct won out over pureblood pride, much to his disdain. He strolled back over to her, slowly, so that he wouldn't draw attention to himself.

"Granger? Erm... how are you doing?"

"Fine," she snapped. "Life is super. I'm _over the moon._ Everything's... great." She paused between words to take a hefty breath that sounded a little shaky.

Everything was obviously not great with her, though he couldn't see what problems _she_ had in her perfect little life. She had friends who actually liked her, got good grades, had parents who didn't dream about cutting her into tiny little pieces and feeding her to the family owl... What could _possibly_ be wrong with her life, except for the few heartless people who picked on her because they needed some way to vent that would make them feel a little better about themselves and their crappy lives?

It took him a minute and a half and about a dozen quick glances at the strange expression on Granger's face before he realised that the voice he had _thought_ had been speaking in his head had actually been _his_, out loud, to Granger.

Oh, boy. This was going to take some explaining.

During his little soliloquy, she had sank down against the wall, sliding to the floor. He gingerly sat next to her, cradling his knees with his arms. Using her fingers to rake the hair out of her eyes, she informed him in a low voice, "Well, did you ever think that maybe _you're_ the one with the decent life? I mean, everything's a _breeze_ for you, and you don't give a damn. You've got more money than anyone I know, all the girls want to date you... your parents might be screw ups but at least they're _together_, they _love_ each other."

Something – it must be that incredible intellect he possessed – was telling him that something was wrong between her parents. He wanted to inquire, but didn't want to seem like the arrogant, nosy jerk that he really was. Not with her controlling the hovering ball of _his own blood_ that insistently followed his head.

Eventually, though, he glanced over at her. "Your parents, not so happy, then?"

"_Far_ from it," she said, sounding dejected.

Who would have thought that Little Miss Perfect was having parental issues, while the rest of the world pretended to suffer over the tiniest details? Or, the rest of _his_ world did, anyway. He had issues; he'd always thought that he was the only one at Hogwarts. It seemed that he could suddenly admit one person into the tiny club of 'repressed kids' that he had always been president, vice-president, _and_ treasurer of.

"So, I guess our lives are just _super._"

"Guess so."

They sat like that, side by side, in fairly peaceable silence for the first time ever. Who would have thought, when he woke up this morning, that in a few hours time, he would be sitting _next to_ Hermione Granger, without any noticeable feelings of disgust or contempt, bonding over the aspects of their lives that made them want to cartwheel?

"Blaise burnt my bunnies."

"Lavender set an alarm for three o'clock this morning and put it right next to my ear."

"My mother signed her once-a-term letter to me with 'don't be a putz'." He brandished it in her direction, as proof.

"This letter," she said, picking it up and looking at it dolefully, "contains my parents' measly excuses as to why they're getting a divorce."

He paused, about to hit her with the Big Kahuna of Problems, to ask, "How do you know what it says?"

She shrugged. "I just know."

He was about to do the same, shrug and move on, but paused again. "Okay, well... I can relate to that whole 'knowing' thing, but hadn't you better open it up and make sure? They _might_ be writing to tell you they've... decided to get a pony."

Granger inhaled, a deep breath that filled her lungs to capacity, and said wryly, "I hate ponies," as she broke the seal on the letter.

Before she even unfolded it, she tossed it into his lap as if it was something infectious, rotting, and putrid. However, being the gentleman that he was, he looked at her with one eyebrow raised. "You want me to read it for you?"

She nodded quickly, and he cleared his throat. "'Dear Hermione'," he began.

"Not out loud," she interrupted.

Silently, he scanned the letter. In the second paragraph, her fears were confirmed, but he didn't want to say so. He didn't want to see her face crumble, strangely enough, though her face crumbling had been his life's aim every time he was around her, all of his life. He didn't finish the letter, because it diverged into a bunch of personal stuff that he doubted Hermione wanted him reading. He placed it back in her lap, but she didn't look at it. She didn't do anything. She just stared at the ground.

"Look," he began. "Maybe it's not so bad. Maybe... frickin' hell, I dunno. What the hell can I say to make you feel better, Granger?"

"Nothing. Just... don't say anything. To anyone."

"Okay," he said quietly, nodding. "Okay."

In the doorway, he paused. "H-Hermione?"

The sound of her first name caught her attention. She looked over at him, shocked.

"I'm going out tonight. There's a new club in Hogsmeade. I was thinking... you should come."

_What was he doing? Why was he inviting Hermione Granger to hang out with him, on his only date of the month? Why? Stupid, party of one._

"No thanks."

Eh. He tried.

His escape was quick, and the removal of the ball of blood from overhead was causing the _Carrie_ day-mares to calm down a little. Breakfast was on by the time he jogged down the stairs of the Owlery, and all of his lazy ass friends had shifted out of bed and were some of the few sitting around the Slytherin table. Most of the students in the school had gone home for the holidays, praise Merlin, so his embarrassing run through the Great Hall in his bunny slippers was witness to far fewer people than had it been in school time.

Blaise was still in the dormitory, in bed, when Draco burst in. He was anxious to crawl under the blankets, fall asleep, and while away the hours until his hot date that night. Since Hermione had turned down his offer of momentary insanity, his date was under no threat of being jeopardised by anyone else, so there was no chance of anyone cramping his kissing style.

"I hate you," came Blaise's muffled voice, just as Draco was drifting off to sleep.

"Yes. I love you too."

It was seven at night when Draco was awoken by a pillow smashing into his head.

"Dude, don't you have a date with that hot Ravenclaw tonight?"

A curse word shot from his mouth, and he sprang out of bed, in such a hurry that he even accepted Blaise's help in dressing. He was supposed to meet the girl at the club at eight, giving him hardly enough time to run through the tunnel to Honeydukes, factoring in showering and dressing. He was severely pressed for time when he skidded to a stop outside the doors of the club.

The girl – Mary? Martha? – was there already, but there were three figures at the table rather than the one _fine_ creature he had expected. One of them was in a black dress, and had familiarly brown hair that was somehow a little more managed than usual...

"_Granger?_" he asked incredulously. "_What_ are you doing here?"

"I was invited-"

"You said no!"

"-By Sally, after lunch. I changed my mind. Is that okay with you?"

"_And_," simpered his date, apparently named Sally, "she brought a date."

For the first time, he directed his eyes over to the boy sitting with them. He was tall, blonde... a Ravenclaw, if memory served – and it usually did.

"Draco," Sally said bossily, "this is Sam. Sam, Draco."

"Hey."

"Hell_o_."

They eyed each other for a moment, until Hermione spotted the tension and quickly suggested, "Sam! Would you get me a drink?"

"Oh... uh, sure."

"I'll join you!" Sally gushed, and skipped over to the bar with him.

Draco slid into the spare seat, looking at Hermione.

"So. How are you... doing?"

"I'm... fine," she answered slowly. "What about you?"

"Um. I'm fine, I guess."

"Do you want to-"

"Oh, for the love of _Merlin_!"

Sally, the girl _he_ was on a date with, had just grabbed Sam's head and thrust her tongue into his mouth. The music was loud, the bass was throbbing, and his ego was _severely_ bruised. Bleeding internally, more like. His ego needed stitches and some sort of heavy drug.

Hermione walked over to the bar, past the couple making out, and grabbed the two green drinks on the counter of the bar and carried them back over to the table. She didn't even flinch when Sam reached down and grabbed Sally's arse.

Draco, on the other hand, did, violently enough to disturb the fat man at the next table.

"And then there were two," Hermione observed, setting down the drinks as Sally led Sam onto the dance floor. There was a small step up to the table, and just as he was opening his mouth to warn her, she tripped over it and landed in his lap.

"Uh, sorry." She frantically tried to stand up, but Draco's hands had flown to her sides when she had fallen. Instinctively. Not out of any need or desire to feel her up. Although, in that dress... she was definitely feel-worthy.

"So. You and me."

"Yup."

There was a pause that stretched out long enough to fill bathtubs, swimming pools, _oceans._ It solidified, froze, and then shattered when Draco opened his mouth.

"Want to dance?"

The first look on her face was of disgust, which quickly transformed into resignation, which hop-skip-jumped into a fairly pleasant facial expression as she nodded and walked onto the floor. He followed her, making sure to keep far enough away that he got a good look at her arse. When she turned around, he prepared to keep up with the loud club song that burst from the walls.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Sam slip a Galleon into the palm of the DJ. The bright lights faded into pale roving spotlights, and the song ended abruptly, only to be replaced with one of those unbearable slow songs that made him want to vomit.

"Um," he remarked.

"Yeah," answered Hermione.

He clumsily arranged his arms around her, just as she did around his neck. Without making eye contact, they tried to semi-dance, and then to swerve when the spotlight came dangerously close.

The disc jockey's voice burst out around them. "Now, for the best part of the evening, our _couples' dance!_ Whoever the spotlight lands on has to _kiss_ their partner, whether they be an old flame, a new friend, or a total stranger. Come on, kitty cats, it's a simple game. Ah, and we have our first victims!"

A couple in their twenties pulled each other into a kiss as a spotlight focused on them.

"_Run_," was all Draco could murmur when the other spotlight swung around and elected the next victims of this torturous game.

"Oh, no you don't!" cried the DJ, and a wall of people blocked their paths. "Come on, one little kiss!"

They looked woefully at one another. Hermione muttered, "What sort of a sadistic asshole comes up with something like this?" just as someone stepped out of the crowd – someone looking _suspiciously_ like Sally – and shoved her towards him.

Their mouths met before either of them could dodge or duck, and they remained like that, locked at the lips, for a fair amount of time. Draco's kissing instincts were coming into play, and his arms tried to move to her waist, his hand wanting to cup her cheek, but he forced them to stop. He forced himself to stay still, until somebody behind him pulled Hermione's arms from her side to his neck.

When he felt himself kind of starting to _want_ it to go on for longer – he was a guy; what else was he meant to do? – they broke apart. Both breathing heavily, both bright red.

"Erm..."

"That was..."

"Forget about it?"

"Forgotten."

"Cool."

They returned shakily to their seats, and his mouth opened before he could control it. "Uh, Hermione?"

"_Draco_?" she addressed him, emphasising her use of his first name, in response to his of hers.

"If you ever want to... y'know. Talk. About stuff... I promise not to be a jerk. I mean, I'll be around."

"Malfoy?"

"Granger?" he countered.

"Yeah, that might not be such a bad thing."

"Cool."

"Yeah."

"So... should we peril dancing again, or-"

"We could always just... talk?" she suggested, shifting her chair closer to his and taking a sip of his drink.

Oh, this Easter wasn't so bad, after all.


End file.
